


In the Heart of the Dragon King

by papermoontrick (chrofeather)



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Folklore, Gen, Kidnapping, Korean Religion & Lore, Legends, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Rituals, Road Trips, Road trip gone wrong, loosely inspired by Spirited Away, lots of almost bad things happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrofeather/pseuds/papermoontrick
Summary: In a little no-name village on Jeju, an ancient local legend speaks of the return of a long-vanished deity. Jiyong doesn't believe in destiny, but when the people of the village believe they've found their Dragon King, they'll go to any lengths to see the prophecy fulfilled.





	1. Chapter 1

At first, Jiyong doesn’t find it strange that the locals stare at him. He’s used to it, of course. They all are—after being in the public eye for so long, it doesn’t faze them in the slightest. Big Bang are professionals, after all. And they’re happy to have adoring fans everywhere, even in this little village where they’ve only stopped for ten minutes to get gas in the van. Their concert venue is in the big city another hour away, but the city of Seogwipo is a two-hour drive from the airport, through winding rural roads, and all of them welcome the chance to stretch their legs after the plane ride and the car ride.

 

Jiyong is hanging out near the entrance to the little gas station convenience store, hood up, having a cigarette in the time it takes Seungri to go in and take a leak. The others have wandered off in different directions, trying to get some air before they have to go back in the van for the remainder of the drive. It’s quiet in this little no-name village, and it would be almost relaxing if not for the almost eerie silence of the local people.

 

There are some kids hanging around, and their wide-eyed stares match those of the older teens and even some young adults. It’s starting to creep Jiyong out, if he’s being honest. They aren’t taking photos or anything (they don’t even seem to have phones), but they aren’t even whispering among themselves, no giggles and stolen glances, with barely a word passed between them. It’s more like awe than fannish admiration.

 

Jiyong spots Seunghyun leaning against the side of the building, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, and decides to join him, if only for something to distract from the… oddity of the atmosphere. “This place is kinda weird,” he remarks to Seunghyun, trying to seem humorous.

 

Seunghyun grunts in agreement, barely looking up from his phone. He’s probably tired; he never sleeps well on planes, or in cars. “Probably just a local hick thing,” he mutters. “They don’t get to see people like us every day. We probably look like foreigners to them.”

 

“I guess.” Jiyong takes another drag off his cigarette, then passes it wordlessly to Seunghyun, who takes it without question. Seunghyun could probably use some anxiety medication, but a smoke will have to do for now.

 

“Service is slow as hell out here,” Seunghyun complains, tapping in vain to refresh his Instagram feed. “Don’t these guys even have wi-fi?”

 

Out of the corner of Jiyong’s eye, he sees their manager walk out of the little convenience store, muttering to himself and rubbing his forehead. Never a good sign. Youngbae is with him, and his expression is troubled.

 

“What’s the problem?” Jiyong joins the two of them near the van, which is curiously still idling next to the pump.

 

“They’re out of gas at the gas station,” Youngbae relays, casting a dubious glance at the convenience store. “For whatever reason.”

 

“Which means we don’t have enough fuel to get us to Seogwipo,” their manager continues, sighing. “They said that the resupply truck should be here tomorrow, but that means we’re stuck here for the time being.”

 

Jiyong resists the urge to groan out loud. This will put them behind schedule, and that means their already tight touring schedule is getting tighter. “Does this place even have a hotel?” he asks, glancing around. He doesn’t fancy having to sleep in the van and fucking up his back right before a concert.

 

“It does, actually!” Seungri casually inserts himself into the conversation, having come back from the bathroom. “It’s just down the main road. Well, it’s more like an inn, but it’s there. Really small, though.”

 

“I thought you were going to the bathroom,” Seunghyun comments his tone only a little bit accusatory. He always picked on the _maknae_ when he was irritable and sleep-deprived. “Did you get lost in there or what?”

 

“I had a look around, that’s all,” Seungri says with raised eyebrows, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s a nice little town. Scenic.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you think so, Seungri,” says their manager, glancing at each of them. “We’re staying the night.”

 

“What? Why?” Seungri asks, bewildered.

 

“No gas in the gas station,” Youngbae supplies. “Go figure.”

 

Daesung chooses that moment to walk out of the convenience store with an armful of snacks, munching on a bag of rice crackers. “What’d I miss?”

 

~oOo~

 

Seungri hadn’t been lying when he said the inn was tiny. There are just enough rooms to put up the five of them, plus their manager. The innkeeper is a wizened old woman with a stoic face, and she’s polite but doesn’t say much, just takes their money and hands them their room keys. Actual keys, not the electronic key cards they’ve become used to in hotels.

 

“Pretty old-fashioned,” Seungri comments under his breath, bemused, as they head upstairs to their rooms.

 

Youngbae elbows him in the ribs. “Respect your elders,” he chides quietly. “It’s a small town.”

 

There are two upper floors, each with three rooms, and the unlucky three to sleep in the loft are Jiyong, Youngbae, and Daesung. That leaves the two Seunghyuns and their manager on the second floor, where it is marginally cooler (though not by much, since there appeared to be no air-conditioning in the building). Youngbae and Daesung head upstairs to their rooms, but Jiyong lingers near the stairs for a moment under the guise of checking his phone. There was something in the garden outside that caught his attention earlier, and he hadn’t been able to get a good look when they came in.

 

Once everyone else has disappeared into their rooms, Jiyong glances around to make sure he is alone. A little exploring never hurt anyone, and he was trying to wait as long as possible before shutting himself up in the stifling heat of the loft. Maybe he would go outside and have a smoke, or hang out in the gardens and listen to music.

 

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he nearly walks right into the girl carrying a basket of linens down the hallway. She stops with a sharp gasp, and Jiyong looks up, startled.

 

He opens his mouth to apologize for his rudeness, but she bows deeply at the waist before he can speak.

 

“The sun smiles upon your arrival, my king,” she recites reverently, an ancient formal greeting Jiyong has only heard in storybooks.

 

Jiyong blinks, unsure of what to say. “Uh, so you’re a fan, I’m guessing.”

 

She straightens and looks up at him, beaming with wide brown eyes. She’s maybe seventeen or eighteen, with the tan skin and deep black hair of a country girl. “You have no idea,” she says with an excited giggle. “You know, I knew you would come back one of these days. I knew it! My grandma didn’t believe it, but I did!”

 

 _Come back?_ “Knew… what, exactly?” Jiyong asks slowly. He’s starting to get the idea there’s something he doesn’t know here.

 

“Oh! Where are my manners? My name is Jaehee,” she continues, like she hasn’t even heard him. “I never doubted you. Not for a second.”

 

“Jaehee!” The elderly innkeeper’s voice calls from down the hall, chastising. “Stop bothering our guests and finish your chores!”

 

“Sorry, Grandma!” Jaehee calls back with an apologetic wince. She bows quickly to Jiyong and picks up her basket again before hurrying off and leaving Jiyong thinking that there is definitely something weird going on here. Well, weirder than normal fan behavior.

 

He decides to head upstairs anyway; his earlier plan of going outside didn’t seem as appealing all of a sudden. The stairs creak and groan with every step, and Jiyong makes a mental note to avoid climbing them at night—the walls are so thin he would probably wake Seunghyun from here.

 

Youngbae’s door is open when he gets upstairs, and Jiyong invites himself in, lying down next to his friend on the mattress with a sigh. Even though it already feels too warm in here, he doesn’t want to move just yet.

 

Youngbae pops one of his earbuds out, glancing over at Jiyong. “Had enough exploring for one day?”

 

“Everyone here is weird as hell,” Jiyong responds without preamble, staring at the ceiling.

 

Youngbae’s smile is one of amusement. “Let me guess: teenage girls chasing your tail?”

 

“Not exactly,” Jiyong says. “The people here act weird. They stare at me.”

 

“Jiyongie, _everyone_ stares at you. You’re famous.”

 

“It’s different here,” Jiyong insists. “This girl came up to me and was all formal, greeted me like I was a king. Even the innkeeper _ajumma_ stares when she thinks I’m not paying attention.”

 

Youngbae is quiet for a moment. “Well, I did some reading while we were at the gas station,” he says after a pause. “There’s a pretty popular local legend about this place. They’re pretty traditional people here on Jeju, especially in the rural parts.”

 

Jiyong gives him a skeptical look. “Are you really going to tell me a ghost story right now?”

 

“Not a ghost story.” Youngbae shakes his head. “Apparently, this is the place where the Dragon King would come down from the sky and take the form of a man. But when an earthquake destroyed the temple where the people paid homage to the Dragon King, he was trapped in mortal form. They say that the spirit of the Dragon King has been reincarnated through the centuries, destined to one day return to this village and regain his true form.”

 

“Alright, I admit that’s clever,” Jiyong says, laughing a little. “G-Dragon, Dragon King. Funny coincidence.”

 

“They don’t think it’s a coincidence,” Youngbae says, his expression serious. “This Dragon King was their deity. I know it sounds crazy, but some of them actually believe it.”

 

Jiyong thinks back to Jaehee and her reverent greetings, to the children and their awestruck stares, to the way the innkeeper murmured prayers and lit incense near the dragon statue in the garden. At first he hadn’t given it much thought; the idol look was always eye-catching, and Jiyong in particular had a penchant for loud fashion. They seemed particularly fascinated with his hair, dyed bright crimson for their latest comeback.

 

“Hey, don’t think too hard about it,” Youngbae jokes, seeing the look on Jiyong’s face. “It’s just a story. Let’s just get some sleep while we can. That concert tomorrow night is gonna be rough if we don’t, and Seunghyun will be even more cranky.”

 

“Right,” Jiyong says after a moment. He wants to believe Youngbae, wants to forget all this and just go to sleep, but he can’t quite shake the feeling that something is… off, somehow.

 

~oOo~

 

A clap of thunder rends the air, close enough to shake the very walls, the dark of night briefly lit up by blinding white flashes of lightning, and Jiyong jerks awake with a gasp. Rain patters against the roof and streaks the windows, but it’s so stiflingly hot in the room that Jiyong can’t resist opening the window a crack.

 

The cooler air coming in, along with a few raindrops, is refreshing, and Jiyong tries to calm his racing heart. His bangs are damp with sweat, and he idly runs his fingers through his hair. Trying to remember the echoes of a fading dream is like trying to find his phone in the dark—soon he finds himself grasping at something that isn’t there. Whether it is gone or he’s looking in the wrong places, he can’t know.

 

Sitting up in bed, he rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, looking out into the bluish-black night. The rumbles of thunder are loud, the flickers of lightning so bright as to be visible even from behind closed eyelids. Going back to sleep already seems like a futile endeavor.

 

The inn overlooks the gardens behind the building, and in the center of a circle of flowerbeds is a great stone statue of an Asian dragon, long sinuous body curled around what appears to be a mountain. Its stone gaze is empty but fierce, expression frozen in a snarl.

 

Jiyong remembers seeing it in the garden yesterday, but he never got to get a closer look at it. He’s never seen anything like it before, and curiosity nags at the back of his mind as he glances from the window to the door. Well, maybe taking a little walk would quiet his mind enough for him to get back to sleep.

 

He slips out the door after putting on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, keeping his steps light so not to wake Youngbae and Daesung. Their doors are shut, and not a sound comes from either room. Jiyong hopes the rain masks the sound of the stairs creaking as he makes his way downstairs, using his phone as a flashlight. The place is incredibly dark, no lights but for the occasional flash of lightning that illuminates the ground floor in eerie black and white.

 

A quick glance around confirms that no one else is awake. Jiyong opens the sliding door just enough for him to slip outside, shutting it again before too much rain can get in. It’s still pouring outside, but the cool air is a relief against his heated skin, and Jiyong hardly notices that he’s getting soaked as he makes his way into the gardens, barefoot.

 

The dragon statue is much larger up close, rain dripping from the carven teeth like real, bestial saliva. It’s perhaps six feet tall, situated in the center of the tall red flowers as though looking over a field of fire. Jiyong stares up at it, transfixed. A flash of lightning throws the statue into sharp relief, and for a moment there is almost life in its stone eyes.

 

Jiyong is reaching out for it almost unconsciously, hand outstretched to touch the clawed forefoot splayed protectively over a great pearl. His fingertips are inches from the stone when a shout from behind him breaks the spell, and he jumps, drawing back.

 

“ _Hyung!”_ Seungri calls from under the overhang, trying to stay out of the downpour. “What are you doing out here?”

 

Jiyong suddenly realizes how chilly it is outside in the rain, and that he is soaked to the skin with cold water, his bare feet muddy and cold. He shivers, making his way back to the terrace to stand in the shelter of the overhang with Seungri, who looks him up and down with both confusion and concern.

 

“You’re freezing,” Seungri says, noticing Jiyong’s slight shivering as the water sluices from his clothes and hair. He grabs a towel from a basket of clean linens inside and drapes it over Jiyong’s shoulders. “I heard you wandering around down here, so I wondered what you were up to.”

 

He pauses, shutting the sliding door behind both of them once they are back inside. “What _were_ you up to, anyway? Out in the rain?”

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jiyong responds after a moment, unsure of how to explain himself. He knows it’s a lame excuse, but it was partially true. “Decided to go for a walk. I didn’t think it was raining that hard.”

 

Seungri gives him a strange look. “Is… everything okay, _hyung?”_

 

“Fine, everything’s fine.” The words tumble out of Jiyong’s mouth a little too quickly, and he silently curses the nervous tremor to his voice. He hopes Seungri won’t notice, but he knows the _maknae_ is more perceptive than that.

 

Seungri sighs. “I know touring is stressful,” he says gently. “It’s hard on all of us. But we’ve got your back, okay? You don’t have to take on all the responsibility by yourself just because you’re the leader.”

 

For a moment Jiyong considers it, considers spilling all of his thoughts about the strangeness of the people and this place and his bizarre dreams, but stops at the last second. It would only sound crazy, really. He opens his mouth as if to explain, then thinks better of it. “Thanks, _maknae_ ,” is all he says with a small smile.

 

~oOo~

 

The rain has abated by mid-morning, and the van is at last fueled up and ready to go. Thee supply truck came by the village only an hour before, delivering fuel to the gas station and restocking other goods for the rural village. The same group of children and teenagers from yesterday linger at a distance, watching like hawks and whispering amongst themselves.

 

Privately, Jiyong is glad to be leaving.

 

Seunghyun is already in the van, earbuds in and sunglasses on. They're just waiting for their manager to set up the GPS and for Daesung to finish putting his contacts in, and then they’ll be on their way. Things will be normal, and they’ll perform at the concert venue, and move on. That’s how it will go, Jiyong tells himself. They’re on a schedule, and they can’t afford to deviate from it any further.

 

Despite himself, though, he feels restless.

 

“Wait!” a voice calls out, and Jaehee, the innkeeper’s granddaughter, runs up the road from the inn. She doesn’t stop until she reaches Jiyong, her smile bright and fearless.

 

“I wanted to give you this,” she explains, holding out her hand. In her calloused palm lies a polished bamboo square on a braided leather cord. “Please, take it. It’ll bring you luck!”

 

After a moment Jiyong picks it up, and the polished bamboo catches the light like a green jewel. Carved into one side of the pendant are the characters for “heart” and “dragon,” which together can be read as “Jiyong.”

 

“I made it,” Jaehee says with a hint of pride. “Have a safe journey, my Dragon King.”

 

In the distance, the sky rumbles with the warning of storms to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so because I can't write anything that's short, there will be three (possibly four) chapters to this fic. I'm trying to keep the chapters somewhat short so they don't overwhelm people? But chapter three will probs be significantly longer, unless I split it into two more chapters. Enjoy!

In the city of Seogwipo, the whole city is abuzz with the hype that comes just before a concert. It’s not a very big city compared to places like Seoul, but the venue is almost guaranteed to be filled to capacity. Due to their delay, there’s no time for a rehearsal, so they’ll have to adapt to an unfamiliar stage on the fly. Sound check will give them time to get familiar with the layout and the little quirks, but it’s no substitute for a real practice. Jiyong knows this, and it only makes his already existing anxiety worse. And when their leader is anxious, the other members can always tell.

 

“Has anyone noticed that Jiyong- _hyung_ seems a little distracted?” Seungri puts the question out there as they are standing backstage in the stadium that morning, waiting for the lighting techs to set up their equipment. They hadn’t even stopped at the hotel and had instead gone straight to the venue to get as much planning done as possible.

 

Youngbae glances over his shoulder at Jiyong, who is across the way arguing with their manager about something, making sure he is out of earshot. “Well, I’d say he’s got every right to be distracted. Our concert is in less than 24 hours and this is the first time we’ve even seen the stage.”

 

“Yes, but more than that,” Seungri insists, gesturing vaguely. “He’s acting… weird.”

 

“Weirder than usual, you mean?” Seunghyun asks with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll admit he’s asked me some odd questions lately, but we’re all a little nervous. He’s just got more on his plate than the rest of us.”

 

“I think it’s more than that,” Daesung says thoughtfully. “You might be onto something, Seungri.”

 

“Damn right I am,” Seungri says with his arms crossed.

 

“Language,” Daesung chides, and Seunghyun slaps Seungri on the back of the head so Daesung doesn’t have to reach around Youngbae.

 

“Ow,” Seungri complains, more out of petty annoyance than actual pain. “ _Hyung_ , I’m 22 years old. I’m allowed to swear!”

 

“Still, it’s our responsibility to raise you right,” Daesung says with such a casual motherly air that Seungri can’t help but capitulate.

 

The _maknae_ rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, mom.”

 

“Focus, please,” Youngbae says, giving Seungri a pointed look. “I was going to say I think you might be right, Seungri. Jiyong’s been acting… off, since yesterday.”

 

“That’s not even the half of it,” Seungri continues, immediately forgetting his earlier annoyance. “Last night I heard him get up and go outside, and I found him standing out in the rain, just staring at some statue.”

 

Youngbae frowns. “What statue?”

 

“You know, the dragon statue that was in the garden at the place we stayed last night.”

 

“But why the hell was he standing outside in the rain?” Seunghyun asks.

 

“You tell me,” Seungri says, glancing around the circle at his three companions.

 

“We could, I don’t know, _ask_ him?” Daesung suggests, bemused.

 

“I did,” Seungri puts in. “He gave some excuse and wouldn’t say anything else about it.”

 

Youngbae’s expression is troubled. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he confesses.

 

“Don’t overthink it,” Seunghyun says, ever the skeptic. “Jiyongie’s just stressed. That’s all there is to it.”

 

Youngbae thinks back to the village and the legend and the eerie dragon statue in the garden, and hopes that Seunghyun is right.

 

~oOo~

 

After a number of technical difficulties during their overview of the venue that morning, their manager had told them to go back to the hotel and get some rest. He would take care of whatever issues cropped up, but the boys needed their rest for the concert tonight. Despite his nearly pathological need to be involved in making sure everything was set up perfectly, Jiyong had reluctantly agreed. He hadn’t slept well recently, and their tight traveling schedule was exhausting for all of them. A nap might be the best thing for them right now.

 

Except that it’s nearly three in the afternoon, and Jiyong can’t sleep. He’s tired—exhausted, really—but his mind won’t calm down enough to let him sleep. He’s been lying in bed in his hotel room for nearly two hours, but all he can think about is the concert and their travel delays and the image of the dragon statue in the garden that seems to be burned into his memory.

 

Jiyong reaches into his pocket and takes out the carved pendant Jaehee had given him, absently rubbing the smoothness of the wood between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a well-crafted piece, he thinks, holding it up to the light. The bamboo is smooth and polished, the characters carved with precision and care. Strange that a seventeen-year-old could have had the skill to make it.

 

Sighing, Jiyong sits up in bed and slips the necklace back into his pocket. He’s given up on sleeping, so perhaps a walk would help to calm his mind. Or maybe a drink. One of the two. He decides to go out and smoke first, then decide.

 

He keeps his hood up and mask on as he heads downstairs, hoping not to draw too much attention. Fortunately the hotel seems to be fairly busy, and Jiyong is able to slip out a side door in between the people milling about the lobby. The air is chilly but refreshing, and Jiyong leans against the wall in the alleyway with a sigh. Out here at least he can be relatively alone with his thoughts.

 

He’s halfway through a cigarette and mindlessly refreshing Instagram when the sound of voices drifts from further down the alley. Two male voices, talking and laughing rather boisterously, seem out of place out here. Curious, Jiyong stamps out the cigarette under his heel before following the sound.

 

There are two men hanging out near another of the hotel’s side exit doors, probably maintenance workers on break. They are laughing and talking, and taking shots from a bottle of soju. It seems a bit early to start drinking, but Jiyong can’t say he blames them, with the way his day has been going.

 

A discarded can crunches beneath his shoe, and one of the men looks up and notices Jiyong lingering in the shadows. “Hey, you!” he calls out with a friendly wave. “No need to hide out over there.

 

Jiyong swears under his breath; he was hoping not to be noticed, but now it would look suspicious if he just ignored them and left. Trying to act natural, he approaches the two men, glancing at the bottle of soju. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?” It sounds even dumber out loud than it did in Jiyong’s mind, but he can’t think of anything else to say.

 

“Maybe,” the other man says with a shrug. He doesn’t ask any questions, which makes Jiyong think he’s either already inebriated or just has poor eyesight. “But we’re celebrating!”

 

“Celebrating what?” Jiyong asks, against his better judgment.

 

“It’s an important anniversary in our hometown,” the man explains. “We’re not there because our jobs are here, but we’re still celebrating.”

 

“Yeah, we’re from the same hometown,” his companion says. “It’s too bad we can’t be home for the real celebration, but at least we have this much.” He downs another shot of soju with a laugh.

 

“Have a drink with us,” the first man says, already pulling out another small glass and pouring a shot. “It’s never a bad time to celebrate life, yeah?”

 

Jiyong is hesitant at first, but it would be impolite to refuse. Besides, he could use something to calm his nerves. “Alright,” he says with a shrug, taking the glass and downing the alcohol in one gulp. It tastes a little strange, he thinks, with a salty aftertaste that’s not quite covered up by the burn of alcohol. He grimaces, realizing that maybe taking shots on an empty stomach wasn’t the best idea.

 

“Thanks,” he says with a polite nod to the two men. “I should be going, but congratulations on your village’s anniversary.”

 

He doesn’t get more than ten steps before he starts to feel dizzy, black spots flashing in front of his vision. Jiyong stops and leans against the wall, blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision. A mixture of fear and panic flutters in his chest like a trapped bird when the dizziness doesn’t go away, and he has to clutch at the wall just to remain upright. “Fuck,” he swears under his breath, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He’s feeling sick and dizzy and his vision won’t focus properly, but if he can just call someone—Youngbae, his manager, anyone…

 

He attempts to take another step, trying to get back to the door, but trips over his own feet. A strong hand catches him by the arm before he can hit the ground, though, and he is pulled back against a broad chest, his legs feeling like jelly. Already his head is swimming, and sleep tugs at his mind. Weakly he tries to pull away from the man’s grasp, but he can’t even keep his balance on his own, let alone fight off this man.

 

“I think you gave him too much,” a voice says dubiously—one of the men from before.

 

“Jesus, he’s light as a feather,” the other man says, surprised. “Might have been too much. He’ll be fine, though. This just means he’ll sleep the whole way back to the village.”

 

Jiyong realizes too late that he’s been drugged, and he has no strength to even cry for help, his phone slipping from his hand. The last thing he hears is the two men talking, one of them easily picking him up and carrying him, before darkness overwhelms him at last.

 

~oOo~

 

Ever since the incident last night with Jiyong and the statue in the garden, Seungri has had a strange feeling in the back of his mind, like a splinter that won’t leave him alone. He’s determined to get to the bottom of this weird thing with Jiyong, even if it means secretly following him around like some kind of _sasaeng_ fan.

 

He had lost sight of Jiyong in the crowd in the hotel lobby, but after checking the side exits he was able to find him again, keeping a safe distance. This really was kind of creepy, skulking around in the shadows to spy on someone he considered a brother, but Seungri tried to think of it as stealth practice. He was starting to get kind of bored up until Jiyong approached the two men drinking in the alleyway outside the hotel, and Seungri felt a prickle of… something in the back of his mind.

 

He watches from a distance, hidden in the shadows, as the two men converse and eventually offer Jiyong a drink. He feels a wave of relief when Jiyong starts to leave the two men, probably heading back inside the hotel, but it doesn’t last long.

 

When he sees Jiyong stumble, and the men make their move, he knows something is very wrong. Seungri doesn’t think before he goes with his instincts, breaking his cover and running towards the two men, one of whom has tossed the apparently unconscious Jiyong over his shoulder like he weighs nothing.

 

“Hey!” Seungri shouts, accosting them. “Leave him alone, assholes!”

 

They look at Seungri, apparently not intimidated. “Piss off, kid,” one of them says dismissively. He pulls out a knife and flips it open, the blade gleaming. “You didn’t see anything, got it?”

 

“As if,” Seungri snaps, his blood boiling at the thought of leaving Jiyong to be taken advantage of by these creeps. They’ve underestimated him, and he intends to use that to his advantage. Those Brazilian jiujitsu classes were about to be useful. “I’ll call the cops. Put him down!”

 

They start to hurry out of the alley, turning their backs. Seungri rushes at the first man with a shout and manages to knock the knife out of his hand, but the perfectly executed kick Seungri delivers to the man’s midsection doesn’t seem to faze him at all. The man grunts, but he barely moves.

 

Seungri’s stomach drops. His opponent is much bigger and likely stronger than he is—alone, he stands little chance of winning this fight through force.

 

“You little punk,” the man growls, grabbing Seungri by his collar and slamming his back against the brick wall with astonishing force.

 

The force of the impact drives the breath from Seungri’s lungs, and his vision flashes white as the back of his head strikes the wall with a dizzyingly painful crack. He crumples to the ground, dazed, as his head throbs with exquisite agony. The man puts his steel-toed boot into Seungri’s ribs for good measure, and the _maknae_ curls up into a weak ball, coughing.

 

“Shit, don’t kill him,” the other man says, slapping his brother’s arm.

 

“Well, what do we do with him? He’s a witness.”

 

“Just bring him along. The priestess will find a use for him.”

 

“Whatever you say.”

 

The next thing he knows, Seungri is being lifted bodily from the ground, in too much pain to protest, and dumped into the backseat of a van alongside Jiyong. Even the slightest movement sends agonizing pain through his skull, and his whole body aches from being thrown against the wall. His wrists are ziptied together, and it’s all he can do to lay there with his eyes tightly shut as he tries to will away the nauseating pain in his head. He hears the rumble of the engine starting, and all he can do is hope that someone finds them before their bodies wind up in a ditch somewhere.

 

~oOo~

 

Youngbae glances at his phone for the third time in as many minutes, seeing that it’s almost five. He had messaged their group chat an hour ago to ask where they wanted to go to dinner, but so far only Daesung and Seunghyun had responded. The three of them were hanging out in Seunghyun’s room, waiting for their other two friends to respond.

 

“It’s starting to worry me that they haven’t replied,” Youngbae confesses, looking again at his messages and seeing no response.

 

“They’re both always on their phones, so how have they not seen our messages?” Seunghyun complains. “I’ve texted Jiyong like five times and he hasn’t responded once.”

 

“I’m worried, too,” Daesung says, glancing between Youngbae and Seunghyun. “It’s not like them to just ignore us like this. Maybe we should look for them.”

 

Youngbae glances again at the time. “Maybe you’re right.”

 

“Seungri did say Jiyong was acting weird earlier,” Daesung says, thinking out loud. “Maybe they went someplace together?”

 

“They’re probably together, wherever they are,” Youngbae deduces. “It’s just too convenient that they would both be ignoring their phones in different situations.”

 

“Well, they have to be here somewhere,” Seunghyun points out. “Where could they have gone? Our concert is tomorrow.”

 

“You’re probably right,” Youngbae says, “but I still think we should look for them. I just… have a weird feeling about this.”

 

“Fine. And then we can go get something to eat,” Seunghyun says, getting up from the bed to put his shoes on.

 

The three of them split up and look all over the hotel, but even after a half an hour, none of them can find any trace of Seungri or Jiyong. They decide to check outside just for the sake of thoroughness, on the verge of going to their manager, and that is where they find their first real clue.

 

Youngbae notices something on the ground, the gleam of polished bamboo catching the light coming from between two patches of cloud. He leans down to pick it up, and a chill goes up his spine when he sees what it is. “Guys… I found something.”

 

Daesung and Seunghyun hurry over, glancing down at the object in Youngbae’s hand.

 

“What is it?” Seunghyun frowns.

 

Youngbae turns the bamboo pendant in his palm, revealing the characters carved into its surface. “It’s the necklace that girl gave Jiyong before we left the village,” he says quietly, his expression grave.

 

“So what does it mean?” Daesung asked, worried.

 

Youngbae glances between both of them. “It means I know where we have to go,” he says. “They’re in trouble, I know it. I just have a bad feeling about all of this.”

 

“But why would they go back to that village?” Daesung interjects.

 

“I don’t think they wanted to at all,” Seunghyun says, his gaze steely.

 

“You mean… someone took them?” Daesung looks horrified by the prospect. “We have to tell our manager! The police! Someone!”

 

“There’s no time,” Youngbae insists. “They can’t do anything, anyway. We know where they’re going, and what we’re looking for. Are you in?”

 

“Well, of course I’m _in_ ,” Daesung says, like it’s obvious. “But won’t we be in danger, too, if we go looking for them?”

 

Youngbae’s hand closes around the bamboo pendant, and he stuffs it into his pocket. “Only one way to find out.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Jiyong comes to, he’s aware of a chill of cool air over bare skin, and a tickling sensation against his left wrist. He manages to open his eyes, feeling like he’s just come out of a sleep deeper than death, and tries to focus his vision on the person kneeling next to him. He’s lying on a futon inside a vaguely familiar house, the light of several lanterns casting warm light and flickering shadows across the space, while the wind howls in the darkness outside.

 

“Where…” Jiyong swallows, finding his voice hoarse and his mouth dry. “Where am I?”

 

The old woman is holding Jiyong’s wrist steady in one of her small hands, while she is delicately painting something onto his skin with a calligraphy brush. She glances up from her work briefly, but doesn’t respond.

 

Jiyong blinks sleepily, trying to wake himself up. Despite his distress, he feels drowsy and weak, his limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated. Getting himself to stand up right now would be a miracle. After a minute or so he gets his vision to focus, though, and he realizes that the old woman is the innkeeper from the village.

 

Surprise flickers in his mind, but he can’t make his mouth form the words to ask a question. As his eyes adjust to the low light, he notices that the old woman is painting hanja characters onto his skin with a thick, dark red ink, stroke by meticulous stroke. Actually, now that he has a bit more sense about him, he notices that nearly his entire nude body is covered in painted characters.

 

There are lines of characters up and down both of his arms, from his shoulders, his wrists—even his palms are painted. More characters snake down from his chest to his belly, down each thigh and leg until they reach his toes. Dazedly, Jiyong regards the characters adorning his arms. On his right palm is the character for “honor,” and on his left he can make out the character for “justice.”

 

“Why?” Jiyong’s voice comes out quiet, hoarse, like he’s been screaming, but it gets the old woman’s attention.

 

Piercing dark eyes regard him from her worn, wrinkled face. “You must be prepared for the ceremony, my lord,” she murmurs finally, those hawklike eyes downcast, glued to her work.

 

“What ceremony?” Jiyong’s heart rate quickens at the words, though he doesn’t know why.

 

A beat of silence passes. “It has been a long time,” the woman says, “so I am sure you don’t remember.”

 

A sick feeling gathers in Jiyong’s stomach, and he gets the sense there’s something he isn’t being told. “Please tell me what’s going on,” he pleads softly.

 

“You will know very soon.”

 

Two men enter the room—the same two who had drugged him in the alleyway—and Jiyong forces himself not to flinch when they approach him. Their gazes are stern, but they are gentle when they take his arms and pull him to his feet. One of them holds a shallow bowl filled with opaque liquid to his lips. “Drink,” he instructs, and Jiyong does.

 

The stuff is a watery mixture of something both bitter and sweet, reminiscent of green tea with something unfamiliar added, and it leaves an oily taste on Jiyong’s tongue. He grimaces but swallows obediently, trying not to think too much about what it might be.

 

They drape a gauzy sheet over Jiyong, almost like a cloak or a veil, before leading him outside and into the cool night air. It does nothing to preserve his modesty, but it provides a semblance of protection from the nip of the chilly wind. Distantly, Jiyong can hear the sound of rhythmic drums beating, and he isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or not.

 

Everything seems so saturated with color despite it being nighttime, the nearly full moon shining bright and silvery-white through gaps in the clouds. Maybe it’s the firelight that seems to be the only source of illumination in the village, casting strange flickering shadows that seem to morph into things that slink around in the dark, playing tricks on his eyes. The old woman leads the way, while the two men lead Jiyong by the hand, like a bride being led to her wedding.

 

They seem to walk forever. The path feels endless, and Jiyong can’t see much through the gauzy fabric draped over his eyes, so he has no way of judging the distance they’ve traveled. The ground is cool and soft beneath his bare feet, saturated from the recent rains, and the whisper of tree branches in the wind tells him that they are passing through the woods. As his heartbeat pounds in his ears, he thinks of running, but where would he go? Even though it feels like they haven’t gone anywhere, he knows they are deeper than ever in the forest. This is their place, and he has nowhere to run.

 

The drums are getting louder, and the sound of whispering human voices is audible between the rhythmic drumbeats.

 

They enter a wide clearing, and the veil slips down to Jiyong’s shoulders to allow him to see at last. The clearing is lit by a series of torches, and nearly the whole village must be there. Not that their population constitutes more than perhaps eighty people, but the presence of the shifting crowd is disorienting. Soft gasps and cries erupt from the crowd at the sight of him, and some of them even get on their knees and bow low to the ground, murmuring fervent prayers.

 

Youngbae’s words about the legend echo in his mind. _They say that the spirit of the Dragon King has been reincarnated through the centuries, destined to one day return to this village and regain his true form._

 

It can’t possibly be true. Can it? Not that it matters to these people, for whom the legend cannot be more true.

 

“Behold,” says the innkeeper, unnecessarily, “the Dragon King has returned to us at last!”

 

Incoherent cries of joy and adulation burst from the crowd of villagers, and the drumbeats echo in the night like a fervent heartbeat.

 

“Long have we awaited the day when the Dragon would return,” the old woman continues, her voice surprisingly strong and stately, carrying across the clearing. The people watch in silence, captivated. “It has been twenty generations since anyone saw the Dragon—since the day he was trapped in mortal form by the actions of a jealous god of the sea!”

 

The crowd calls out in support, men and women and even children caught under the curious spell of this dark fervor.

 

“Priestess Myungsook, come forth.” The old woman beckons towards the crowd. “Tell us that it is true—tell us that the time has come. Our Dragon King does not know himself as he once did.”

 

The crowd parts down the middle to reveal another elderly woman in what can only be traditional regalia, her wrinkled face painted in dramatic colors that seem eerie in the flickering light of the torches, which cast twisted shadows from her headdress. Her hanbok is a style Jiyong has never seen, and the necklaces of bamboo and bone around her neck clatter together like wooden chimes. She carries a wooden staff with painted markings, and despite her stooped, diminutive stature, her aura is intimidating. The crowd’s roar falls to a quiet hush at her entrance, and it’s clear she commands some power here.

 

The innkeeper pulls the gauzy sheet away from Jiyong’s body with a flourish, leaving him standing completely exposed in the center of the loose circle the crowd has formed. He feels the urge to flinch, especially when the cold air hits his bare skin, but he forces himself to stay still and meet the priestess’ gaze.

 

The priestess walks around him in a slow circle, observing him. She reaches out with her staff and taps his knees, his elbows, making him stand straight with his shoulders back. She nods, thoughtful, but says nothing. Then she comes closer, looking him up and down. She flips his eyelids up with her thumb, looks in his mouth to examine his teeth, like one might examine a horse at auction. Jiyong is uncomfortable with being manhandled so publicly, and he shies away from her touch, but he can’t bring himself to speak.

 

He looks her in the eyes, though, refusing to back down even when her gaze is steely and unflinching. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles. “There is fire in you yet,” she remarks cryptically, her voice too low for the other villagers to hear.

 

“You have done well, Kyunghee,” the priestess says, raising her voice so that the others can hear. “The prophecy may be fulfilled tonight.”

 

A chorus of shouts and whoops rises from the crowd, then dies down again.

 

“I admit that I had lost hope,” the old woman says, her eyes downcast for dramatic effect. “But my granddaughter Jaehee’s faith never wavered. It is thanks to her that we have this chance tonight.” She gestures with one arm towards a group of young girls dressed in identical dark blue hanbok, and Jaehee comes forth from them, her dark eyes shining with firelight.

 

“Prepare the sacrifice, my granddaughter.”

 

Jiyong watches with speechless dread as Jaehee rolls up the sleeves of her hanbok, revealing bandages wrapped around her wrists. She peels the bandages off to reveal the deep ritual cuts, pressing on the torn flesh to make them bleed again. In her free hand she holds a curved knife. The blood drips into a shallow bowl, drop by drop, while two men drag a bound and blindfolded figure into the center of the clearing.

 

One of the men removes the blindfold, and Jiyong swears that his heart stops for a moment when he sees the face beneath. Even in the dark of night, he would know that face and that platinum blond hair anywhere. “Seungri!” he calls out, desperate, even though his voice is weak and his throat raw. He pulls against the grip of his captors, but their hands are firm and for some reason Jiyong’s limbs are shaky and weak. Even if he did manage to escape, he thinks his legs might buckle beneath him like those of a newborn fawn.

 

His memory is hazy thanks to the drug; how did Seungri get mixed up in all this? Jiyong is frightened, to be certain, but he would gladly submit to whatever they asked of him if it meant that Seungri would be safe from harm.

 

But Seungri doesn’t even seem to hear him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He is pushed to his knees in front of Jaehee, wrists bound behind his back. For one terrifying moment Jiyong thinks she is going to slit Seungri’s throat, but instead Jaehee merely opens a new cut in her arm, letting more blood flow until it pools thickly in the shallow bowl. She takes a calligraphy brush and delicately paints a character onto Seungri’s bare chest, directly over his heart. It reads “death.”

 

Jiyong tries not to think about the dark reddish tint to the characters marking his whole body.

 

“He is ready,” Jaehee says gravely, the light of torches reflected in her eyes. She rebandages her arm and goes back to join the ranks of the solemn girls in their blue hanbok, standing sentinel at the edge of the clearing.

 

The old woman leading the ceremony nods to the two men, who lead Jiyong forth as the drums beat a slow rhythm in the background. The crowd parts down the middle to admit them, towards a towering pyre of brush that had gone previously unnoticed. It’s an enormous amount of dry wood, perhaps twelve feet high at its tallest, with two great wooden spears crossed at its peak, like an altar in the shape of a St. Andrew’s cross.

 

A flash of panic surges through Jiyong, and he tries to wrench himself from the grip of his captors, but he may as well have been a squirming newborn kitten for all the effect it had. The men lift him up effortlessly as they ascend to the top of the brush pile, binding his wrists tightly to the X-shaped cross at the peak. “Please don't do this,” he all but begs, but they don’t even seem to hear him.

 

They leave him there, bound at the altar like a sacrificial lamb. Jiyong struggles, pulling at his bonds and trying in vain to loosen the ropes, but somehow they only seem to get tighter. Seungri is bound to the other side of the cross, the poor _maknae_ still senseless with whatever they had tranqed him with.

 

Two of the girls in hanbok are emptying plastic jugs of gasoline around the base of the pyre, and the smell is thick and heady in the night air. Jiyong realizes with a sickening lurch of panic what they plan to do, and he lets out a cry, able to do nothing but struggle uselessly like an animal caught in a trap. All he can think of is that he doesn’t want to die, not like this.

 

“You don’t have to do this!” he calls out desperately to the old woman standing at the base of the pyre.

 

But she is facing the other way, gesturing with one hand to the rows of girls in blue. The drum gives a single, solitary beat, and they begin to sing a high, haunting chant. The moon peers out from behind a dark gray cloud, casting an eerie light on the forest clearing as the girls’ singing and the beat of the drums echo together in the night.

 

“We have waited too long for this day to come,” says the old woman, her arms outstretched almost reverently towards the pyre and the moon. She turns to face the pyre, meeting Jiyong’s terrified gaze with eyes that both love and pity. “The body must die for the spirit to live.”

 

She bows deeply at the waist, then straightens. The drum gives another deep, booming beat, and she says, finally, “God of the skies, our prodigal Dragon King, I release you from your mortal bonds.”

 

She drops the torch onto the gasoline-soaked wood, and it goes up with a roar.

 

The drums beat feverishly in the background, flames eagerly consuming the dry wood as Jiyong thrashes helplessly in his bonds. The heat ripples upward in waves, so hot that it feels hellish even though the flames are still near the middle of the pyre.

 

The drums are so loud that Jiyong can’t hear himself scream, a wordless, animal cry for help as the flames draw ever closer, terrifying bright orange and yellow against the black night. Thunder rumbles deep and loud in the sky, and the drums beat faster. As he desperately tries to draw himself up and away from the encroaching flames, Jiyong looks up at the sky, searching for some meaning in such a death.

 

What he gets instead is a deluge of rain, pouring down from the sky as though dumped from a bucket, accompanied by a roaring thunderclap. It’s cold, icy cold, and Jiyong doesn’t remember what comes after.

 

~oOo~

 

“You pass the test.”

 

A rumble of thunder punctuates the words, and Jiyong open his eyes, startled. He’s lying in the grass, soaking wet, as rain pours down from the sky in an endless deluge. The elderly priestess, kneeling next to him, is similarly soaked. Everything is wet and dark, the flames quenched, the pyre now a collection of ash and brittle burned-out branches.

 

“What the hell does that mean?” Jiyong asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the fact that he is naked and cold and wet, shivering so hard he can barely keep his teeth from chattering.

 

But the priestess seemingly ignores him. Instead she rises to her feet and raises her arms towards the crowd of soaking wet villagers. “The Dragon King lives!” she calls out, and the resultant chorus of shouting and crying is nearly drowned out by the roll of thunder.

 

A wet cough from nearby startles Jiyong, and he looks over to see a similarly half-drowned Seungri only a few feet away, still shirtless but no longer bound at the wrists. “ _Hyung_ … what happened?” Seungri looks dazed, his eyes unfocused, as he shivers in the rain.

 

The two women seem to ignore Seungri’s existence entirely. “There is no time to waste,” says the innkeeper, Kyunghee. “We must go to the shore and complete the ritual.”

 

Jiyong gets the sense that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. But there’s one thing he has to fight for. “On one condition,” he interjects, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds.

 

The priestess nods to him. “Speak, then.”

 

“Let my friend go,” Jiyong says, forcing himself to meet the woman’s steely gaze. “And I’ll do what you ask.”

 

The priestess casts a glance at Seungri, who is sitting on the ground shivering, looking uncertain. “It will be done,” she says simply.

 

Seungri blinks, as if only now realizing what this means. “What? _Hyung,_ no!” he protests, standing up and taking Jiyong’s hand. Lightning flickers in the sky above, illuminating the whole clearing for a fraction of a second in sharp black and white.

 

“Get out of here, _maknae_ ,” Jiyong orders, shoving at Seungri’s chest without any real force. His hand slips from Seungri’s as the priestess leads him away, and Seungri can only stand there in shock, confused and scared, like a lost puppy in the pouring rain.

 

Jiyong forces himself not to look back, even though the hurt, frightened look on Seungri’s face was like a knife in his heart. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen now, but at least Seungri will be safe. The innkeeper leads the procession, the whole village following as they make their way down to the island’s shore. It’s a short walk, but it feels longer, and Jiyong thinks that somehow the rain is coming down even harder now.

 

A great storm rages over the sea, the waves pounding the rocks that line the shore. Wind howls and thunder rumbles, and the great waves rise up as if to meet the sky before crashing back down with a noise almost as terrible as the thunder. The drumbeat starts again, barely audible over the sounds of the storm, but the constant rhythm resonates somewhere deep in Jiyong’s mind like a metronome.

 

“It is time,” the priestess says. There is an ancient stone pier that juts out into the sea, slick with rain and seawater, and she leads him to its beginning.

 

Jiyong’s heart is pounding, almost in sync with the beat of the drum. He knows what he has to do. It might be the rain or the drugs or the rush of adrenaline pumping his veins full of barely suppressed terror, but he can hear whispers in between the drumbeats, the voice of the sea calling him home.

 

Jiyong walks to the end of the craggy stone pier, staring down at the heaving waves about ten feet below. The dark water is dizzying, its pull almost magnetic. Something pulls at his heart, something deep and ancient, and he is no longer afraid.

 

~oOo~

 

Running through the woods as quickly as he can manage, Seungri doesn’t bother with stealth. The ground is muddy and uneven, the rain still coming down in sheets, but he hardly notices. All he knows is that he has to get to the shore, following the path the villagers took. Minutes ago? Hours ago? Seungri doesn’t know. His head is throbbing, the pain so sharp it makes him feel sick and dizzy, but he can’t stop.

 

If he does, he may never see Jiyong again.

 

At last he bursts through the edge of the tree line, entering the relatively flat strip of shoreline. Blinking the black spots out of his vision and ignoring how his lungs are aching, Seungri frantically scans the shoreline for signs of life. He spots the group of villagers not far away, surrounding a craggy stone pier. At the end of the pier, dangerously close to the crashing waves, is Jiyong, staring out into the sea as though this storm doesn’t look like it’s about to turn into a typhoon.

 

Seungri half-runs, half-stumbles down the rocky hill to where the villagers are gathered, pushing through the crowd. “ _Hyung!”_ he calls out, desperate. But in the time it takes for him to reach the front of the crowd, it’s too late.

 

One moment Jiyong is there, standing at the edge of the pier like a figure in a painting, and the next moment, a huge wave surges up and engulfs the end of the pier entirely. When the wave crashes back down, he is gone.

 

Seungri lets out a cry of despair, feeling anger and grief and sadness well up inside him all at once. He starts to run for the beach, but the girl, Jaehee, catches his arm.

 

“No!” she says, looking at him with fierce eyes. Her sopping wet hair is stuck to her skin, bangs plastered to her forehead, but instead of looking like a drowned rat (as Seungri is sure he does), she seems calm and in control. “There is nothing you can do.”

 

“Bullshit!” Seungri snaps, wrenching his arm out of her grasp. He looks from her to raging sea, desperate. But he knows she’s right. “He’ll drown out there!”

 

Jaehee shakes her head. “He must finish his battle with the Drowned God, now and forever.”

 

A deafening rumble of thunder shakes the very air, followed by a crack of lightning that seems to illuminate the whole horizon, and Seungri claps his hands over his ears. The storm seems to be getting worse, if that were possible, and the wind howls out of the west, a screech to answer the roar of thunder.

 

Flashes of lightning illuminate strange shapes behind the clouds, and Seungri can’t say for sure what they are, only that he is terrified in ways he never thought he could be. Next to him, Jaehee drops to her knees, hands clasped in prayer as she murmurs to herself, voice lost to the wind.

 

Soon the people of the village are forced to take shelter in the shadow of the hill, where the high tide has carved out shallow caves. They huddle together out of the wind and rain, listening to the crash of thunder and the howling wind. Seungri finds himself praying, too, hoping to any god listening that his friend is somehow alive, against all odds.

 

The priestess goes out again after an interminable amount of time, calm as though the storm isn’t threatening to drown them on dry land. She is reciting quiet prayers to herself, and Seungri follows her to the very edge of the water, unable to wait any longer.

 

The priestess turns her gaze skyward, closing her eyes. “It is done,” she says over the howling wind. “The Dragon King returns.”

 

As if on cue, the rain starts to lighten, just a little. The wind is no longer so sharp and cold, the waves not so violent. A gentle wave washes ashore, soaking their ankles with seawater, and not ten feet away the water deposits a pale body painted with red hanja characters.

 

The water releases Jiyong with almost absurd gentleness, leaving him lying on the shore, pale and motionless and serene.

 

Seungri could swear his heart skips a beat, almost unable to believe it. He runs to Jiyong, forgetting the priestess entirely, and kneels down in the sand, pulling Jiyong’s cold, soaking wet body into his arms. “ _Hyung! Hyung,_ please, please wake up…” he begs, helpless.

 

Jiyong appears to be unconscious, his lips vaguely blue, and he isn’t breathing. Finally the rational part of Seungri’s brain kicks in, and he realizes he has to do something besides panic.

 

He lets Jiyong lie flat on his back in the sand, and presses hard on his chest with the heels of his hands. Seungri isn’t trained in CPR, but he’s seen this in movies. It has to work. Right?

 

“Dammit, Jiyong, don’t do this to me,” Seungri says breathlessly. He does a few more compressions, but he’s afraid of breaking Jiyong’s ribs if he uses too much force. His throat tightens up, and tears prick at his eyes. “Please…”

 

A few more seconds pass in agonizing silence, and Jiyong suddenly writhes and chokes, caught between coughing up water and gasping for breath.

 

Seungri helps Jiyong sit up, letting him get the water out of his lungs so he can breathe normally again. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, and Jiyong leans against Seungri’s shoulder, exhausted.

 

“Fuck… Almost burned to death… and drowned… in one day,” Jiyong manages between shallow breaths, but he has the energy to smile tiredly up at Seungri. “Just… my luck, huh…?”

 

Overwhelmed, Seungri just hugs Jiyong tightly, both for warmth (because they’re both probably on the verge of hypothermia at this point) and because he has to make sure this isn’t a dream. “Don’t ever do that again,” he says, unnecessarily.

 

Behind them, the priestess smiles, setting down her staff and sitting cross-legged in the sand. The rain is gentle now, the wind only a calm breeze blowing in from the sea. “The Dragon King is returned to us at last. You have done well.” It’s still dark, but the horizon is starting to lighten in the distance, and she watches over the two of them embracing on the shore, allowed to rest at last.

 

 

~oOo~

 

Seungri wakes up on the ground with his cheek pressed into the dirt. His head is aching, and he’s so cold his fingers are numb. He sits up with an effort, trying to loosen the stiffness from his body, looking around and trying to make sense of the world.

 

The sky is starting to lighten; dawn is slowly but surely on its way, and the air smells of smoke and wet ash and pine trees. Seungri shivers, crossing his arms across his bare chest and wishing he knew where his shirt was. He’s still trying to figure out how last night and now fit together. All he can remember is darkness and fear and flames and someone screaming…

 

Seungri gasps aloud, eyes widening as the memories come back to him, hazy but terrifyingly real. Where is…?

 

He looks around the clearing, scanning carefully for signs of life. The ashes are cold, and the expanse of wet ground appears to be empty at first. How did they even get back here? At the edge he spies a familiar slim human figure with unmistakable crimson-dyed hair. That's his _hyung_ , alright, wandering with slow steps around the remains of the pyre like he’s never seen it before. He’s also bare-ass naked, skin streaked with ash and the rust-red hanja characters painted all over his body. Blood doesn’t wash away so easily. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, or even care much. Jiyong’s expression is blank, staring at the place like it’s something fascinating that he can’t understand.

 

Seungri struggles to his feet, hissing when his stiff muscles protest the action, stumbling a few steps before his body decides to cooperate. “ _Hyung!_ ” he calls out, and Jiyong looks up, blinking like he’s surprised to see another human being.

 

“ _Hyung_ , are you okay?” Seungri asks, taking Jiyong’s freezing hands in his own. He’s glad, so glad to see his friend alive that he’s not sure if the waver in his voice is from the emotion or the cold.

 

Jiyong falls to his knees, letting out a sharp breath that mists in the cold air.

 

Seungri kneels beside him, concerned. “Jiyong- _hyung_?” he says softly, worried. “Please talk to me.”

 

Jiyong looks up, finally, some clarity coming back into his eyes. “…Seungri,” he says after a long moment. “You’re okay, aren’t you?” The look in his eyes is familiar, the look of a concerned older brother watching after his younger sibling.

 

Overwhelmingly relieved, Seungri pulls Jiyong into a tight hug. “Yes,” he whispers. “I’m okay, _hyung_ … Thanks to you.” He isn’t really sure what happened, to be honest, but he knows that whatever Jiyong did, it saved both their lives.

 

A shout from the other edge of the clearing gets their attention, and they both jump, startled. Three familiar figures rush across the empty space, ignoring scattered ashes and empty jugs of gasoline.

 

Youngbae, Daesung, and Seunghyun run up to them, breathless and panting in the predawn chill. Seunghyun shines the flashlight around the clearing, wide-eyed. “What the hell happened here?”

 

“Yeah,” Daesung echoes. “And why are you naked, _hyung_?”

 

Jiyong can’t help but laugh breathlessly. The exhaustion must be getting to him, because he feels entirely too light and giddy for the situation. “It’s a long story.”

 

“Fuck, it sure as hell must be,” Seunghyun says, kicking at the ash on the ground. “We saw a big fire in the distance and followed the sound of people screaming and playing drums. The storm was so bad we had to stop and take shelter, though.”

 

Youngbae takes off his jacket and drapes it over Jiyong’s back, noticing his friend’s visible shivering. “We can swap stories later,” he says, glancing around the clearing. “For now, let’s just get out of here.”

 

“I second that idea,” Seungri says, arms crossed and skin prickling with gooseflesh.

 

“How did you know to come here?” Jiyong asks as Youngbae pulls him to his feet.

 

Youngbae tries not to stare at the litany of rust-red hanja characters painted all over Jiyong’s body. “We found this,” he offers in explanation, holding out the necklace Jaehee had made.

 

Jiyong stares at it for a long moment, then reaches out and takes the pendant from Youngbae’s hand. His thumb traces the grooves in the carved wood, tracing the characters for “heart” and “dragon.” His name. He looks up, and his gaze is drawn to the dragon statue situated under an ancient wooden arch near the edge of the clearing. It’s surrounded by a few large moss-covered stones, and looks very old. The statue looks like the same one that was in the garden at the inn in the village, except much older, more wind-worn.

 

_But when an earthquake destroyed the temple where the people paid homage to the Dragon King, he was trapped in mortal form. They say that the spirit of the Dragon King has been reincarnated through the centuries, destined to one day return to this village and regain his true form…_

 

Ignoring his bandmates’ chattering for the moment, Jiyong approaches the statue slowly, his bare feet nearly silent against the forest floor. The horizon is getting lighter now, illuminating the dragon statue with a touch of pale dawn light. He looks up at it, the stone dragon’s features frozen in a fearsome snarl, with moss hanging from its horns and scales worn smooth by rain.

 

“Was it you?” he murmurs softly, wondering. He doesn’t remember all of what happened the night before, only flashes of flames and drumbeats and thunder and screaming. He isn’t sure he needs to remember. Something had protected him and Seungri, saved them from the flames. Maybe it was just the storm. But maybe it wasn’t.

 

Jiyong hangs the bamboo pendant on the dragon’s horn, and it makes a soft noise like the wooden wind chimes against the stone.

 

The touch of a hand on his shoulder startles Jiyong out of his reverie. It’s Youngbae, his eyes gentle and somewhat concerned. “Let’s go,” Youngbae urges gently. “You’ve had a long night.”

 

“You’re right,” Jiyong says with a small smile. “Thanks for coming back for me, ‘Bae.”

 

“The audience would be disappointed if it was just the four of us at our concert tonight,” Youngbae jokes.

 

“So I’m the main attraction?” Jiyong grins. “This would be quite a look for the stage, huh?” Naked except for body paint, streaked with ash and soot from a would-be human sacrifice? He’s sure someone would think it’s genius.

 

Youngbae laughs. “TV censors really would kill us this time,” he says. “Not to mention YG would think you’ve finally cracked.”

 

“So is that a yes?”

 

“In your dreams, Dragon King.”


End file.
